BABEL
by foxdvd
Summary: 7 characters, 7 heritages... 7 sins. This is probably the best fanfic I've ever written... I'd love to share it with you. Please, R&R and let me know if you feel the same way. Thank you!
1. INTRO

**A/N:** I woke up a couple of nights ago with half this story already "dreamt" of. Granted, it's not your traditional kind of fic. It has no case, no pairings and not even a relationship between each vignette, other than the obvious title one. But it was a story that wanted to be told, so here it is. I'd like to credit all historical, biblical and genealogical info to Wikipedia, and all translations to Wordlingo. English is not my native tongue, nor are the other 7 used in this fic.

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Once upon a time, there existed a place know as "the Gate of God". And men from around the globe decided that the best way to arrive to that gate would be by building a tower – a magnificent construction that raised high unto the heavens, giving all men and women of worth a chance to reach the gates of heaven.

Many men and women went there, trying to prove themselves worthy of the Lord. To be worthy, you had to have a clean soul, free of sin, the soul of an innocent child. But not all men and women were worthy.

Some of them fell prey to lust. Not only the physical kind, where you are consumed with sexual thoughts, for sex there was plenty among them, but also the lustful need to be recognized by others, and the consuming need for excitement in every area of their lives.

There were those who couldn't resist the call of gluttony... and were marked by their refusal to share resources and their unreasonable or unnecessary consumption of those available.

Some unfortunate ones committed the sin of greed or avarice, unworthy feelings that include disloyalty, deliberate betrayal, or treason, especially for personal gain, such as a bribe. Scavenging and hoarding of materials or objects, theft and robbery, especially by violence, trickery, or manipulation of authority are all actions that are inspired by greed.

Worse to some were those who presented symptoms of sloth, the spiritual apathy that affected the faithful by discouraging them from their religious work or Sadness, a feeling of dissatisfaction or discontent, which caused unhappiness with their current situation.

There were those who exhibited inappropriate feelings of hatred and anger, no doubt ill-advised by the devil of Wrath. And the one who desired to be more important or attractive than others had listened to the whisperings of Pride.

And last, but not least, were those who commit the sin of Envy and desired something that someone else had.

These were not traits that pleased the Lord, nor were they traits that were useful in building the way towards the gates of Heaven. Or a tower. Thus the Lord got their sins to work against them, and each of them began to speak in a different tongue, so different, in fact, that it didn't take long for them to stop understanding each other completely, and soon, the idea of building a tower was soon abandoned, and the name of the place for the heavenly gates forgotten.

But nothing remains forgotten forever. Hence Babylon. Or Babel. This became a synonym for a conundrum of languages and misunderstanding.

Modern day Babel, aka New York City, is still fraught with dozen different languages, millions of misunderstandings, and too many sins to keep track of them all. So many, in fact, that it may seem, on the surface, closer in spirit to Sodom and Gomorra than to a place holding the gates of Heaven. But if you listen real carefully, below the surface you'll hear that, for every cardinal sin, irregardless of which original language it was committed,

There's always the hope of redemption.

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	2. LUST

_Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te..._

Danny Messer feels the rosary beads as he rubs them between his fingers almost absentmindedly, a task performed almost automatically, habit ingrained by years and years of religious upbringing, so closely intertwined with his own family background that it was difficult not no think of some sort of prayer when he thought in Italian.

It was rather peculiar, if he thought about it, that whenever he got in touch with his inner self, with his emotions, he preferred to deal with them in his mother's tongue. He just couldn't' express himself as eloquently in English as he did in Italian. Vocabulary and intention seemed to be somewhat lacking.

Take love, for example. Clichés had it all backwards. French wasn't the language of love. Italian was. On second thought... perhaps French did sound more romantic. But Italian

was made for love. It had a raw, sexy feel to it. He should know. Most of the notches on his bedpost were acquired after using the carefully selected and perfectly timed Italian phrase. _Bellisima _was practically fool-proof. _Ti desidero molto_ had gotten him into plenty of underpants. _Io ti amo_ had been whispered in the throes of passion, perhaps truly unfelt and uncalled for... but it had allowed him to get away with things he'd have otherwise never achieved. So what if it wasn't entirely true?

Danny risked a glance towards the altar and felt a twinge of shame and regret. _Hypocrite_, he thought to himself. Sitting here feeling pleased with myself, repeating a formula to ask for forgiveness, and yet incapable to admit what I am. _Un prigioniero del sesso e dei piaceri della carne_. Hard to keep impure thoughts to yourself when your worst enemy lies between your legs...

He looked sideways to his _mamma_ deep in fervent prayer. How many times had she chided him fro having so little control over his passions? How many times have she asked him to settle down, to find _una buona donna_? Signora Messer was an advocate for marriage, her mantra being _"L'unione tutta lo ripara"_ and had shaken her head in disproval time and time again whenever Danny had come home with yet another girl... and remained single time and time again.

Perhaps he should consider settling down for good. Being less of a Casanova and more of a _marito_. Perhaps he had sowed his oaths one season too many. Finding the right woman and settling down for good would no doubt please his mother greatly. It may also mean finding a peace he had been lacking more and more. A peace of mind and spirit. A peace of soul.

Forgiveness was possible for those who atoned.

_.. , che ho molto peccato in pensieri, parole, opere e omissioni, per mia colpa, mia colpa, mia grandissima colpa. E supplico la beata sempre vergine Maria, gli Angeli, i Santi e voi, fratelli, di pregare per me il Signore Dio nostro. Amen..._


	3. GLUTTONY

Hunger, Notwendigkeit, Verbrauch

Sheldon Hawkes had a very vague notion of German. He knew that several generations back it had been a German settler who had aided his ancestors after they had been set free from slavery. The man's name had been Falke, which over the course of the years had evolved into what he considered his legitimate surname nowadays.

He was also vaguely familiar with the concept of gluttony. Like most people, he tended to associate the term with food. And he was a doctor. He was well aware of the dangerous effects of over (and under) eating. He was also a man who took good care of his body. Therefore, to call Dr. Hawkes a glutton seemed, for all practical purposes, incongruent.

Had he given the idea more consideration, he would have come to discover that gluttony was a term also referring to those who accumulate knowledge for their own use and were not willing to share with anyone else.

And when it came to _wissen_ Sheldon Hawkes was a true glutton.

He had been considered a _genie_ by his teachers in both high school and college and soon won the admiration and hatred of many of his peers. He pursued his interests with a passion and focus that knew no limit. He was also kind and forgiving, so... who could hold against him the only "fault" he seemed to have?

Classmates and early coworkers soon learned that Sheldon Hawkes would let you eat the food off his plate and wear the shirt off his back... but he'd never, ever share the knowledge he had. The reasoning for such attitude was nearly perfect, in perfect synch with the idea of teaching how to fish instead of giving out the fish. Surely there was no sin in that was there?

But then he became a CSI and had to learn the hard way that withholding knowledge was not only a sin of gluttony, but a _kriminell_ negligent act. Adam had landed in the hospital and could very well not recover the skills needed to work at the lab. No one was pointing fingers at him, it had, after all, been an accident. But deep inside Sheldon knew it was his fault. When Adam had asked if he knew how the substance would react to chlorine acid, he could have very well told him it would become very volatile and the response speed would increase dramatically. But Sheldon thought it'd be best is he allowed Adam to find it out for himself.

The price of knowledge could have very well been death. And Sheldon Hawkes knew he would have been to sole responsible party if that particular push had come to shove.

It was much, much later, after he had left the hospital, after he had checked for the zillionth time that Adam would be fine, that Sheldon Hawkes decided to walk home. He thought the crisp autumn air would do him good and help him clear his head.

So far, he was failing miserably. His head was clear as crystal and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was lacking some sort of atonement for what he had done, for what could not be considered any less of a sin.

He was a bit surprised when, upon gazing upwards, he found himself standing outside an old Protestant church. Destiny's ironic twist had wanted him to find solace in his own origins, as it was a German temple.

Not without certain hesitation, he allowed himself to go inside, kneeling at the last row of pews. He heard the rumors of thousands of yesterday's voices, and it wasn't long before he joined in, reciting the long-forgotten words of his early childhood, where his mother had thought him how to ask forgiveness:

_Das Vaterunser, Vater unser im Himmel. Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme. Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel, so auf Erden..._


	4. GREED

Greed: saint, mí-ionraic, mídhílis, braith

Peyton Driscoll hated feeling like the new kid in school when she really wasn't. She had been away for only 2 years, _damnaigh_! Even the country-monkey girl, Monroe, Munroe, whatever, was acting all condescending towards her.

Peyton wanted her place back. She NEEDED her place back. And not just in the ME's office. Which reminds her, with what right is that _dubh _boy running around the streets when he should be holed down in the basement with all the others? SHE should be the one who had gotten promoted.

Peyton knew she was partly at fault. But she'd rather drop dead than admit it to anyone. Even if she'd wanted to scream and yank her hair out and stamp her feet loudly on the ground, all the others would see was a pleasant miongháire and a professional attitude. She was not about to show her true Irish colors to these people.

Peyton had heard from Sid, that _graosta_ old man that called himself a doctor, that they all were a happy lil family, always there for each other. Soooo caring. Sooo sweet. It makes her sick in her stomach. Get a life, people. She wanted nothing to do with any of them after her 8 hour shift was over.

Peyton knew that was a lie. Not all of them. She was very much interested in her _leannán_, Mac. She'd LOVE to see the expressions in their faces if they only knew! It was bound to even wipe the smug grin that seemed perpetually plastered in that Italian schmuck. She relished the flavour of victory.

Peyton had waited sooo patiently. She had known she wanted him from the moment she had laid eyes on him. But back then she was a married man, and she wasn't stupid enough to try and play the _bean luí_ role. Then the attacks happened. For a mere fraction of a second, her guilty conscience made her think that perhaps SHE had provoked those by means of her unholy thoughts: she had wanted Mac's wife so badly out of the picture!

Peyton had to start the waiting game all over again. Mac was now a grieving _braintreach_ and, totally against her own logic, had not been eager to drown his sorrow in the arms of another woman. Namely, her. No, he carried his mourning in solitude and celibacy. And she had tried. Oh, how she had tried. But her subtle attempts had not been noticed and her not so subtle ones had been kindly rejected. She had gotten the "it's not you, it's me" speech and the "give me some time" speech and the "I don't want to use you" speech. And she had grown tired of listening to speeches.

Peyton had literally jumped at the opportunity to work in Washington DC. And not just any work. Head of Forensics for the DC's PD. One of the first females to hold that position and also one of the youngest. She was virtually drunk with _cumhacht_. But things didn't quite work the way she planned. The power she has so relished had very set limits. Her male coworkers were still chauvinistic pigs. And the female coworkers resented her youth... and her attitude. In short, after a year of living hell she got to admit that she wanted to go back to NYC.

Peyton had gotten a _sabóideach_ permit to pursue a new degree. She knew it was just as excuse. She wanted to go back to school as much as she had wanted to stay in DC, but it gave her a dignified way out... and the chance to request getting back to NY. Night after night she carefully reviewed the scenarios of her triumphal comeback. She'd obviously be offered (and granted) the Head of ME's position. The detectives would seek her knowledge and boast her center of the universe. And Mac... Mac would be ready, waiting for her, accepting he had been a fool all those years back for turning her down and praising all gods above for her coming back. It was simply... perfect.

Peyton had come back only to find her carefully laid plans all blown to pieces. The former head of ME's had decided to cash in an early retirement (bloody bastard had the nerve to have a heart attack!) and the new boss was a bureaucratic dog who thought all ME's were created equal. And then there was the issue of the Bonasera _cailleach_. Now who exactly did she think she was? Acting all chummy around Mac... SHE should be the one laughing in his office, not that lanky horse-face! So what if she was almost killed by her psycho lover? The floozy probably deserved it for sleeping around... if rumor had it right; she was probably doing the blue-eyed kid from the detective squad.

Peyton bit her lip. She was, perhaps, being a tad to harsh towards her workmates. After all, it wasn't as if they were doing it all just to _faltanas_ her. Actually, they were all being very nice and are trying to find her a place in the "family". And it's a place she'll have to earn on her own, starting from ground level. She can't quite come back her and expect people to bend backwards for her. And she can't come in here coveting what the others have.

Peyton knows she's behaved wrongly. Even if she's now dating Mac, she can't but feel a bit of remorse for coming between him and Stella. She feels she has betrayed them and acted dishonestly. She has been greedy and now she fears she'll loose what she's got if she doesn't atone for her wrong doings. "Beware not of those that act impurely, but rather of those who have impure thoughts", her grandmother used to say. And Peyton's thoughts have been anything but pure. Or loyal. Or nice.

Peyton sits in the morgue waiting for their latest victim's body to be picked up and wonders if he had a chance to ask for forgiveness. Probably not. If there's anything she knows about this world is that death never waits for us to get our stuff straightened out before paying us a visit. So maybe...

Peyton leans back, closing her eyes, and the words so long ago learned come back to her in a whispered prayer: _Ár nAthair atá ar neamh, go naofar d'ainm Go dtaga do ríocht Go ndéantar do thoil..._


	5. SLOTH

Sloth: sleuth, slep, dolorous

Lindsay Monroe knew that sooner or later, her cheerful facade would start to fracture and ultimately, shatter in thousand pieces. After all, she couldn't go on forever playing Pollyanna now, could she?

She saw herself as if through a tinted glass... everything in slow motion... fallen prey to apathy and sadness... weekends came, days off came, and all she wanted was to curl in bed and sleep.

For sleep brought peace. And the least she remember, the best it was for all of them. She didn't want to remember. She didn't want to feel. Therefore, she pretends.

She pretends to be efficient. She pretends to care. She pretends to find joy in everything and everyone around her. She pretends to be in perpetual movement, a dynamo, a flash of lightning.

In reality, her soul is moving in slow motion, filled with sadness. She's just so tired. Can people see how she feels? Is she transparent? She wonders, but, in the end, she finds out she doesn't really care.

She feels so _auld_. She feels _awfy_. She is a _bampot_. She feels like she's dying, but she'll never _let dab_. _Eejit!_

She stops for a minute to ponder why, when she's about to fall asleep, she reverts to the old Scots words her grandmother used. She then decides it's not worth the effort, and allows herself to wallow in sadness and stillness.

Perhaps she'll have a dreamless sleep. That would be nice. She furrows further into her cocoon. Then she sees it, the carved tablet that's been in her family for generations, dating back to the days where they did their farming near Munro Tablets, in Scotland. An engraved tablet, meant to be given to her eldest daughter as a birth present.

She lets her fingers trace the engraving, as she mouths the words: _Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh, gu naomhaichear d'ainm.Thigeadh do rìochachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a nìthear air nèamh. Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran làitheil. Agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail a mhaitheas sinne dar luchd-fiach... _


	6. WRATH

Wrath: colère, haine

Mac Taylor had many reason to be angry at life, with life. Ever since he could recall, life kept testing his resolve, testing his stoicism, testing his integrity. And he was darn near his _point d'arrêt._

First it had been his parents' deaths, mere weeks before he graduated as a Marine. He knew his parents were proud of their son, so willing to fulfill his duty, _pour mourir pour son pays_. But life had thought it'd be a hoot not to let them see it happen.

So he went overseas to do his duty. And he fought next to fine men. _Bons hommes_. Men who were even better than him. And he got to watch them die. And it angered him. It angered him because he had survived and they hadn't, it angered him that he couldn't do anything to save them.

So he left the Marines and became a detective. One of NY's finest. And she met a fine woman. One of NY's finest. And he married her and he was happy for a while and he could almost forget the things that made him angry in the past. And then everything changed in an instant. Two planes came and spread sorrow all over town. _Et la mort était dans le ciel_. And he was angry again. Hatred enveloped him in a shroud and it took months for him to see and not see wrath around him.

So he moved to another area in the field. And he met new people. And he realized this new people didn't have to suffer from his anger and his pain. So he began to love more and hate less, all for these new people. _Ils étaient ses amis, sa famille. _ And he began to feel happy again. And he began to live again.

But life was not done yet with Mac Taylor. And since there was little left for it to take away from him, life begun targeting those around him. _Un_, he had to fire Aiden. _Deux_, Danny almost lost his job and his brother. _Trois_, Stella got attacked. _ Quatre_, Aiden gets murdered. _Cinq_, Flack gets hurt in a bombing. _Six_, Lindsay almost gets shot. _Sept_, Hawkes is on the "hit list" of a sadistic serial killer. _Huit_... Mac wonders what the next blow will be.

In the meantime, he's mad. Furious. Livid. He had finally decided to take a chance again on love, and now he wasn't so sure it had been the right choice. Peyton Driscoll could very well be his _dernière chance pour l'amour_, but he wasn't sure he wanted to put her at risk of becoming the next casualty in his life.

He's learned to live with wrath. He's managed to control it so it won't cloud his mind when times comes to make decisions and take actions. Once or twice, he had let it come very close to the surface, like when he had argued with Stella over Agent Blue. And he could feel his anger laughing _dans son visage_.

Mac ponders on this while watching the city as dusk falls. The lab is quiet and he lets his mind wander back in time to childhood memories and memories of war. And he resorts to the words he's said over and over again to help him keep his anger at bay: _Notre Père, Qui es aux Cieux, Que Ton Nom soit sanctifié, Que Ton Règne vienne, Que Ta Volonté soit faite, sur la terre comme au ciel..._


	7. PRIDE

**Pride: trots,** **zelfrespect, nietigheid**

He was proud of being a cop. And not just any cop. Third generation one. Part of a proud group, proudly named "New York's finest". And he was a damn good **politieagent**, as well.

He was proud of being a New Yorker. He was proud of how the citizens had decided to fight back after having turned into a modern day Sodom. Like a phoenix, they had risen from the ashes, and not even a terrorist attack could bring them down to their knees. They were scarred, but they were survivors. And he was damn proud of that, too.

He was proud of his heritage. Fifth generation Dutchmen. Hardworking people. His forefathers had arrived through Ellis Island and had found a way to make a living. A decent, honest living, unlike many immigrants who had only come to America to continue a life of crime. The Flacks had earned everything they had with honest to God hard work, first by breaking their backs on the docks, then by walking the beats for many, many miles. And he was damn **naarstig** as well.

He was proud of his looks. He knew he had genetics to be thankful to begin with, but he had also worked hard to keep them up that way. He worked out. He ate more less balanced. He dressed nicely. He might even admit to primping from time to time. There was nothing wrong with coughing up more than 5 bucks to get a good haircut and a close shave every now and then. Metro sexual? Get outtalk my face. Vain? Absolutely. He had no problem whatsoever admitting he was a tad** vergeefs. And damn proud he was of it, as well.**

But sometimes, late at night, after a hard day at work, he couldn't help but wonder. Pride was a good thing. Vanity wasn't as good, but he was only human. Self-absorbed? Snob? Intolerant? Those carried a different tune altogether. And one that he didn't like. The problem was, is someone ever accused him of being **ostentatief he'd either laugh in their face or bash it in, depending on his mood and how much alcohol he had to drink prior to the comment.**

**Yes, maybe he took his pride of being a cop a bit too far sometimes, specially when meeting his former childhood buddies. He got a weird satisfaction when he realized he had managed to put a good amount of distance between himself and the guys back in Yonkers. He KNEW he was no better nor no worse than any of them and still… **

**Then there were the days, the really, really bad days at work, where he wondered if maybe he could have had a choice in his future. He had gone into the Academy right after getting his high school diploma, his family reputation preceded him, it was expected of him, and he never questioned it. Except on those nights when he couldn't sleep cause he couldn't take off his mind the raw crime scene he had worked that day. Those were the nights when he wondered what his life would be like if he weren't a cop. The rest of the time, there was no dubben in his mind that this was the life he was meant to lead. But still…**

**He found himself growing impatient more often when he had to work cases where illegal ijselijk were involved. He considered himself an American with a Dutch ancestry, but not an immigrant anymore. Not after so many years. There was no reason why he should not treat people any different given their last names, and still…**

**He'd also noticed that as of lately he has been comparing himself to other guys in terms of physical fitness and attractiveness. It got specially acute when he found he couldn't score with a chick in his nights out or when his flirting caused no effect whatsoever. He knew it was harmless, he knew he was a schoon man, successful with both sexes, albeit only interested in one. He discarded it as a phase all middle aged guys went through sooner or later, but still…**

**Perhaps his worse crime of pride was related to his co-workers. His female co-workers. He really had nothing against Makka or Angel, he'd be the first to admit they both had earned their detective badges with hard work, and they were both good at what they did. But they were wijfje, after all, and he was an alpha male, and he felt... threatened? Irritated? Possessive? **

**He sighed and looked back at the crime scene in front of him. It was carnage and it was going to be one of those days where he was going to need more than his pride to carry him through to the end. He really didn't consider himself a religious man, and still… the words of many generations come back to him with the same ease as being a cop does: **_Onze Vader in de hemel, uw naam worde geheiligd, uw koninkrijk kome, uw wil geschiede, op aarde zoals in de hemel…_


	8. ENVY

**Envy: zilevo, fthono**

Stella Bonasera walks towards an empty row and reflects on what she has just done. She knows she hasn't been entirely honest with either one of them and wonders why she bothered doing it in the first place. Out of habit, probably. The only thing her foster families had in common was this, and thus it grew to become something of a second nature to her. **Thriskeia **made her believe she belonged.

She sits down and ponders why she feels like the world's biggest hypocrite. She thought she was a good person overall. She cared for those who were victims, and helped capturing those who did wrong. Granted, she had killed people, a big no-no, but it was part of the job. She wasn't a **dolofonos.** And a way of staying alive, a voice whispers inside her head, shivering when she remembers Frankie. All the atonement in the world is going to help dealing with that one. And back in the more mundane world, neither has therapy, but she ain't telling that to either source.

Deep down she knows why she's feeling the way she's feeling. It has to do with the guilt of an unconfesed sin. And the **enochi** burdens her like nothing she had experienced before.

Stella Bonasera is a bad person. A good person wouldn't envy those around her. A good person would feel **eftychismenos **for their accomplishment and their own personal happiness and not envy that it was them and not her.

She is consumed with envy at everything that surrounds her. When she sees a family, she longs for the one she never met. When she sees lovers, she misses the ones she had but had gone away. When she sees mothers with their kids, she mourns for what will never be. She envies the small unimportant things in life, like blue boxes from Tiffany and fur coats and limo drivers and private jets ready to leave for Italy at a moment's notice.

She envies all the people that will go through their lives without ever having to see even one hundredth of the pain and destruction she sees on a day to day basis. She envies those who had had a peaceful death, unaware of what had happened, for she knows her death will be anything but. She even envies those who work with her.

She envied Flack's sense of destiny, having never questioned his calling in life, and being damn proud of who he was. She envied his **perifania.**

She envied Mac's anger at life's injustices, and how he worked on making things better and not just wallow in his pain. She envied the way he worked around his **timos.**

She envied Lindsay's resilience and the way she moved in such calmed fashion even in the worst situations. She envies her **melancolía **and how she doesn't let it get the best of her.

She envies Peyton's drive. She knew what she wanted and she went for it, she waited for it, she worked for it. She envies her **afierosi** for the man she loves and the job she adores.

She envies Shel's hunger for knowledge and justice, and how he'd patiently wait for you to figure things out rather than pointing them in the first place. She envies his **peina** for the truth.

She envies Danny's "devil.-may-care" attitude, how he goes for what he wants without hesitation. She envies his **pathos** for life.

Her list could go on and on, and she's not sure her **papas** would even try to understand her. He'd probably tell her she thinks too much about the things that she shouldn't be thinking about. He'd probably tell her that she is a good person, a good woman, a good cop… a good Orthodox, even. He'd probably listen to her in confession and move his head in disbelief and disagreement and sent her out to do her penance. Atonement for her sins. A new beginning with a clear conscience.

So she settles to do just that. And just before she kneels down on her favourite pew, she reflects on what she heard earlier that day, that maybe envy wasn't such a bad thing, not when it moves us to be better people every day. And she wonders if she'll ever be as good as those who surround her. The least she could do was try.

And she could begin right there and then. Simply by asking for guidance and forgiveness like she has done many other times: _Pater imon o en dees ouranees, agiatheeto to onoma sou. Eltheto ee vasilia sou, os en ourano, keh epi tees ghees. Ton arton __imon ton epioosian dos imeen seemeron..._

o o o O o o o

**A/N: **Well, it's done now. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it. To answer some of your questions:

I'm not going to translate the words used that were written in other languages.

With the exception of Danny, everyone else is saying "The Lord's Prayer".

The languages used were (in order) Italian, German, Irish Gaelic, Scots Gaelic, French, Dutch and Modern Greek. Some of the choices were obvious cannon, the others were based on surname origin research

I TRIED writing each chapter in a different tone, to give each character a different voice. Notice the usage of the verb "try".


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